By Traci Bennington
During the Year of Lasallian Spirituality, Christian Brothers Conference is publishing reflections to provide spiritual inspiration and stir continued dialogue around Lasallian spirituality.
It was February 2021. COVID-19 was still dominating our lives. I was working in an empty office, retreats and service trips were canceled, and Mass — though still sacred — looked and felt unfamiliar. The one thing that still felt normal was running.
Running had always been a grounding force for me. Through high school and college, I competed in track and field as a jumper and heptathlete. But after graduation, when it became harder to train in those events, I naturally transitioned into distance running. It brought me joy, a sense of escape, and the challenge I craved. Even in the midst of the pandemic, those things remained true — until they didn’t.
On Super Bowl Sunday, the day after a strong 10-mile run, I was supposed to head to my parents’ house to watch the game. But something felt off. I was weak, drained of energy. My heart was fluttering unpredictably, and there was a strange tingling in my feet. I assumed I was coming down with something, maybe even my first case of COVID, so I decided to stay home and rest.
By Thursday, after four days of feeling worse and still unable to return to work, I finally called my doctor. When I arrived at the clinic, I could barely walk. A nurse had to help me to the exam room because my legs were so weak and unsteady. Thankfully, I had a doctor who truly listened, who saw beyond the surface and recognized that a healthy, 30-year-old woman in peak physical shape should not be experiencing these symptoms. He immediately sent me to the emergency room, even in the middle of a pandemic, because he knew I needed urgent testing and care.
At the hospital, I underwent a battery of tests as doctors worked quickly to uncover what was happening. That evening, a neurologist diagnosed me with Guillain-Barré Syndrome, a rare autoimmune disorder in which the body attacks its own peripheral nervous system. It explained everything: the tingling, the weakness, the creeping loss of movement. I was admitted for the next eight days and immediately began treatment.
This was only the beginning of what would become a long and complicated medical journey.
Over the next several months and years, I would face wave after wave of health battles. There was a pregnancy, joyfully and miraculously conceived after five years of infertility. There was vestibular neuritis, which stole my balance and partial hearing from me. There was mold toxin exposure, and a relapse of a previous tick-borne illness, dysautonomia, Mast Cell Activation Syndrome, POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome), and more. While I was no longer in immediate danger, my quality of life became incredibly fragile. I was surviving, but only just.
And I was trying to care for a newborn daughter.
It was a time marked by physical weakness, emotional isolation and spiritual silence. My body no longer did what I asked of it. Each day demanded constant adjustments and compromise. The rhythms of faith, service and community that had once structured my life were upended. I felt like I had been stripped of the very identity that had shaped me as an educator, an athlete, a woman of faith.
And yet, grace found a way in.
Lasallian spirituality is built on a simple, powerful conviction: God is always present. Even in the silence. Even in the weakness. Even when the world feels entirely unrecognizable. I clung to that truth — not always confidently, not always without doubt, not always without anger, but persistently. The presence of God showed up in the steady hands of new and incredible doctors, in the text messages from co-workers checking in, even when I had no energy to reply, and in the warm, quiet moments with my daughter, when nothing else made sense but the rhythm of her breath in my arms.
I was surrounded by an inclusive community, though I didn’t always have the strength to participate in it. My husband, my family, Totino-Grace High School, and the larger Lasallian community carried me through the days I couldn’t carry myself. Their support was not loud or showy — it was Lasallian at its core: consistent, compassionate, rooted in love. I received messages, prayers, reminders that I was not alone. My identity wasn’t tied to what I could do, but to who I was: a beloved child of God, a Lasallian.
And through it all, one quote from Saint John Baptist de La Salle echoed in my soul: “You can do more with the grace of God than you think.”
I used to hear that quote in the context of teaching, coaching or leading formation — pushing through a hard week or stepping into a new responsibility. But in this season, it took on deeper meaning. Doing “more” didn’t mean producing or achieving. It meant enduring. It meant holding on. It meant rising — slowly, imperfectly, sometimes literally — from the floor when my body gave out, trusting that grace would meet me where I was.
Grace wasn’t loud. It didn’t always feel miraculous. Sometimes it looked like 10 slow steps across the room. Sometimes it looked like asking for help or allowing others to serve me when I was used to being the one who served. But day by day, I found I could do more, not because of my own strength, but because God’s grace was quietly at work in my weakness.
Today, I still carry the weight of these experiences, but I also carry their wisdom. My faith looks different now: It is quieter, humbler, more rooted in surrender than certainty. I do not know what each day will bring, but I know I am not alone in it. I know God walks with me, sometimes silently, but always steadily. I know my community will show up. I know that being Lasallian doesn’t require perfect health or a full schedule of ministry. It requires presence. It requires love. And it requires the courage to believe — especially in the dark — that we can, in fact, do more with the grace of God than we think.
Traci Bennington is a coach at Totino-Grace High School in Fridley, Minnesota.